


of paint and paper

by igabega



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Best Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Sunsets, There's A Tag For That, artist and writer au because yeah, geso, im so scared to pgost this, one kiss only because i cant write fluff, thats enough tags jesus, vrea beta'd this because i dont trust myself without one, what the fuck are these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:02:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28876125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igabega/pseuds/igabega
Summary: “I saw a painting quite similar to it in the gallery.” Dream chirps, the tension between their fingers threatening to start a flame.“I remember that one. The picture of the couple?”“Well, a couple is a bold assumption,” Dream says.“I guess you’re right.”“They could be close friends.”George hums again.“We could recreate that.”(or, George is a struggling artist who just so happens to stumble upon Dream, a well-known writer.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 277





	of paint and paper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maltfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maltfall/gifts), [lunchbox_friend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunchbox_friend/gifts).



> hello!! this fic is pretty choppy, but im proud of myself for getting it done, so i hope you enjoy :D 
> 
> this fic is dedicated to malt and seven, two people that have been here for me the entire time ive known them. (glitch and em, i love u too) 
> 
> (THANK YOU FOR LOOKING OVER THIS VREA!! <33)

They didn’t meet by choice. 

I doubt you can even call it a meeting. 

It’s a foggy morning, the biting cold creeping up George’s back. He shivers, clutching his canvas in his right hand and paint in his left. 

Dream is there as well. He’s sat on a bench, nursing a book between both his hands. A pencil and a couple roughed up notes are littered beside him, taking up most of the space he has.

The two didn’t mean to bump into each other. They really didn’t. 

It’s quite idiotic, really. 

Despite the difference in hobby, they’re both there for the same reason. Of course it’s cold, but that doesn’t stop the need for inspecting scenery. 

George hopes he has the right colours. 

Dream hopes he’s brought a blade to sharpen his pencils. 

Coincidentally, they both end up in the same spot. 

George knows Dream. Though he isn’t an enormous fan of his writings, they often leave him with feelings of comfort and light, low warmth bubbling in the pits of his chest whenever he finishes any of his novels. 

On the other hand, Dream doesn’t know George. _Yet_. 

The morning light shines through the fog, melding the cool undertones together and stretching them out across the sky. 

It’s an accident really, the moment when George almost trips over Dream's careful handwriting displayed atop the careful pages. It visibly startles Dream, making him jump slightly. 

George apologizes, standing his ground and shifting his position. He doesn’t want to have come all this way for nothing. 

Dream watches as George sets up his canvas stand, the shadow of it reflecting on to the glacial lake. The body of water is quite large, small ripples giving off a feeling of languor. He cherishes early mornings like these, the feeling of a forever chaotic world stopping for just a moment and becoming completely still. 

The pressure on George’s shoulders double, the feeling of a well-known writer being this close to _his_ work, his _art_ , is somewhat overwhelming. 

Dream isn’t particularly paying attention to what George ends up painting. He’s tangled in his mock-up fantasy, describing what the view is like down to every last detail. He writes with soft strokes, all about how the fog floats slightly above the water, how the cool air distorts its gas-like gray mass into multiple patterns, how bright flowers line the edge. It’s perfect, really. Blissful blues and shades of green mixing together, anyone could take their turn and love it as much as Dream does. 

George’s eyes are fixed on mixing colours. His mind is on autopilot, watching his shades of sea green meld with soft grayish-white. He’s tuned the weight of the world out, it’s only him and his artwork now. It’s as if he’s mirroring what his eyes see, and reflecting it right on his canvas. It’s times like these where he can truly enjoy every detail, be at peace.

Every so often, Dream glances at George’s canvas throughout the hours, immediately letting go of the book in hand, focusing all his attention to George’s delicate strokes. For reasons he can’t explain, watching the shorter man create such small, jagged lines encapsulates him. It’s as if he’s watching a masterpiece being born in front of his very eyes, and he doesn’t understand why he hasn’t seen his work before. Every artist he knows or has seen, has had their work displayed in some form of art show, so why hasn’t he seen the brunette’s? Has he chosen to stay away from conventions? With such talent as that, Dream can’t see why anyone would choose to do so. 

George doesn’t notice Dreams staring. He doesn’t notice anything except the calm rustle of salty waves and the low breeze that swirls around him, flipping his dark brown locks from side to side. His caramel eyes are trained on his palette, blending colour and bringing a new meaning to the once blank white in front of him.

That’s how it starts. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen?

Over the next four days, they coincidentally meet back together at the exact same bench. As if it’s routine, George sets up directly in front of where Dream sits to write. That’s how it is, for the next four days at least. George keeps his focus to himself, and Dream does the same. They don’t exchange greetings. They don’t bother one another. 

Until the day Dream makes one of the best decisions of his life.

Low light is plastered all over the dull colours of the Earth, the dewy grass smelling highly of petrichor. The mass of sticky, warm light is hidden by dense clouds, causing a large shadow to be cast across the lake. George doesn’t fancy weather such as this, for the sole reason that it takes the vibrancy away from his artwork. He finds it easier when the weather is clear, warm and simple. 

Dream loves days like these. They remind him of grand castles, mighty and regal and ambitious. The cool air sinks into his skin and gives him the motivation he needs, prompting his fingers to move and print his imagination onto paper. The fitted cloth that drapes over his tall figure sways with the wind, letting the brisk breeze caress his bare skin. He doesn’t have a set plot for this story just yet, but he’s sure he’ll find one soon enough. 

George hates this. The humid weather is interfering with his brushes, the placement of his colour, mostly everything he really needs to pay attention to. Maybe he should return another day. 

Dream notices George slowly placing his materials back in his bag. He decides that now is as good of a time as ever, so he sets down his wrinkled notes and stands to face George. He’s been meaning to say something to him for the past couple of days now. He’s shorter than Dream, maybe around 5’9, shirt covered with various paints and all sorts of stains. He takes his stand next to him and opens his mouth to speak. 

“I like your painting so far,” he says. Dream immediately winces in embarrassment after George jumps slightly at Dreams comment. In hopes he didn't startle him too much, he motions a quick apology. 

George turns, matching his eyes with Dream. The colour of his iris reminds him of cool summer days, a sharp tinge of pricking ice blue swirled in there as well. 

“Thank you,” George replies, keeping his eyes locked with the acquaintance. 

“I’ve never seen your work before. Have you just moved to town?” Dream says, giving George a look overflowing with confusion. George lets out a faint sigh, turning his gaze back to cleaning up. 

“No, I’ve lived here all my life. My art never gets accepted into galleries, if that's what you’re asking.” George states. Dream looks at George quizzically. He doesn’t understand—why wouldn’t art like that be accepted? He’s about to question before he notices something in George’s left hand. It's a novel, not a huge one, maybe averaging three hundred pages, but Dream can recognize it anywhere. He can recognize it because it’s _his_ novel, his unfinished trilogy that he had long ago lost motivation for. Did this stranger enjoy his writing? 

Before he could address the elephant in the room, George already had crossed Dreams path and was too far in front of him to ask. Dream can only hope he will be back tomorrow. 

-

George quickens his pace. Why did he leave so abruptly? He could’ve had the chance to compliment Dreams writing, to tell him how wonderful it is. 

George is an idiot, he’ll admit it. 

The small tinge of hope that Dream will be there burns, hidden deep in the pits of his thoughts. He promises that if George does see Dream tomorrow, he’ll tell him all the words he has to say about his writings. 

That first promise will most definitely not be the last. 

When morning rolls around, the words George has planned out are tied up neatly, secured with bows of reassurance and confidence. He makes quick strides out his door with supplies resting messily in his raggedy satchel. 

When Dream arrives, George has yet to appear. There’s an unaddressed tension in the air, tightening on his lungs and thickening the fog around him. He takes his usual seat on the bench. It’s quite uncomfortable, but Dream can't complain. The scenery makes up for it. Bright sun rays project onto Dreams rumpled pages, accenting on how uneven and disorganized they really are. He breaths in the cool, clear November air, shoving all discomfort aside for a moment and placing his attention on the paper in front of him. He’s so focused, he doesn’t even notice when George steps around him and begins setting up in his usual area. 

George was debating bringing his canvas stand this time. He’s always been such an adroit artist and finds it easier to absorb the view when he isn’t feeling forced, or constrained to paint the way everyone wishes him to. Painting the way he sees fit gives him a sense of freedom, feeling the fresh wind against his bare skin. His hair is tangled today, dark brown strands overlapping each other and forming small knots in various places. He doesn’t look _bad_ , just not his best. 

Dream notices George’s presence fairly quickly, shifting his sitting position to watch George layout soft strokes overlapping the ones he had made days before. Dream knows he should say something. He _knows_ he should, yet keeps his mouth shut. If George wants to talk to him, he will.

Right?

  
  


This morning, George isn't particularly caught up in his work. He’s focused on admiring the shine of the water today, keeping it’s still form and reflecting the lush greenery that surrounds it. Low cut grass lays atop the sparkling lake, forming a sort of ‘C’ shape on top. Although this painting isn’t _close_ to its final stage, George is sure it can wait a minute, can’t it? 

Dream sets his pencil down. His wrist aches from the repetitive movement, shaking his hands and curling his fingers towards the bright sky. Parts of it are hidden by cotton-like masses, evenly distributed in large forms all over the shades of deep, clear blue. He hasn’t been sitting there for long, maybe half an hour at most? At this point, Dream decides to shove his pettiness aside. If George isn’t saying anything, he might as well complement his art again. 

“I like the colours,” he says, like the idiot he is, with so much uncertainty and nervousness that even Dream has to remind himself he isn’t lying. George whips his head around. He doesn’t look bothered, just slightly startled, for he was quite concentrated. 

George can’t believe he almost hit his canvas. When Dream called his name, the bubble of silence and peace was popped and ripped to shreds. George curses under his breath, annoyed for making a fool out of himself, turning to look at Dream with unsteady eyes. He feels almost bad—he doesn’t want Dream to think he’s the reason George looks so ticked off. 

Dreams pulse quickens, fuchsia stained cheeks and sage irises gleaming with anxiety in the vibrant light. It really isn’t such a big deal, it just stuns him for a moment. 

George shifts his full attention to Dream. “Thank you. I quite enjoy mixing them.” He manages to respond, voice catching in his throat. Dream raises an eyebrow, eyes still matched with George. 

“Where did you learn to paint with such meaning?” 

The question throws George off track. Never before has anyone acknowledged his efforts, the passion and feeling he lets seep into his paintings. He’s grateful, in a way, for the man's remark. 

“I’m self-taught, ever since I was a child. Pretty views just, captivate me I guess.” George glances at Dreams unfinished strings of writing. There’s a tinge of curiosity slowly burning through his chest.

Dream notices George’s interest and ponders on making a remark before acting impulsively on the thought. “I’ve been working on a new book, honestly, this place makes it easier to write. It clears my mind, you know?” Dream wonders if that was a stupid statement to say. Judging by George's reaction, it wasn’t. “My name is Dream.”

“Dream; the well-known writer with over four bestselling novels. That Dream?” George teases, sparks of sarcasm burning throughout his tone. The corners of his mouth pull up into a bright grin, shining his teeth to Dream and almost releasing a small giggle. 

“I guess you could say that. And you are?” he responds, light golden wisps falling over his eyes, though he makes no effort to brush them away. 

“My name is George, your local struggling artist with no organization whatsoever.” 

Dreams' eyes sparkle, a small chuckle escaping his lips. Whatever doubt he had about speaking to George has completely diminished, vanishing in seconds and being replaced with a sense of amusement and pride, thinning the tension and slicing it with a knife. 

Dream tells George about his newest plot.

George tells Dream about the variety of art he has, and how different techniques can be when sketching rather than painting. He’s now given his word that he’ll bring a few of his different pieces in a day's time. 

Dream leaves with a newfound clarity that evening, the minor events on loop, sewing his thoughts and keeping them contained like small satin pouches accented with bows of reassurance. 

On such a cold night, the two can find warmth in the almost friendship-like sensation they’ve created. 

Today, George sleeps without disruption.

By morning, most of the fog that’s littered the town the past few days has subsided, clouds clearing space for the blue to pass along the sky. As if even more to prove that the temperature has yet to warm, the wind whips throughout the mellow light and morning mist. George collects his materials and painted canvas, adjusting his collar while taking swift strides out the door. His hands are full, as are his thoughts, threatening to spill over and flood his head with fresh ideas and new plans for possible artwork. 

As per usual, Dream arrives early, his bookbag barely hanging on to his left shoulder. He’s brought a different novel today, one he finds to love much more with pride and joy. Maybe it’s because it was the first time he wrote for himself, not for the gain of others. Something about that small fact brings a smile to his lips. 

George stares at Dreams relaxed figure, approaching him with his satchel secured across his feeble posture. He motions a fairly quick greeting, and begins his daily routine, setting up each piece of his canvas stand to peer over the mirroring ripples that disrupt the stillness of the lake.

Dream doesn’t know if he should address the question that’s been itching at the back of his mind. Could George have forgotten? He’s never been entitled to bring Dream anything, and it wouldn’t be a problem if he had forgotten entirely. Dreams curiosity often gets the best of him, and in most cases, it isn’t a good thing. He places his book aside. George’s painting is slowly layering, combining and deepening shades of scarlet, bringing it a more sumptuous feeling. 

George sets his brushes down. He decides to wait for his newest layer to dry before making any rash decisions, and takes a seat on the dry land next to his bag, retrieving an average-sized sketchbook in the process. He stands quite reluctantly, picking himself over to Dream. He hasn’t forgotten what he had promised a day ago. Dream’s already set his materials down and seemed to be looking over at where George’s canvas had previously been. He stares upwards towards George, eyes fixed on the drawn-over papers in hand. “You said you wanted to take a look, right?” 

Dreams eyes widen. “Yeah. Here--take a seat,” he says, shifting himself a bit towards the left to make space for the smaller man. Now, they’re only inches away from each other, Dream fawning over George’s rough drawn designs and character ideas. He explains each one with careful detail, all the way from the first graphite stroke to his signature. 

George tells Dream, and Dream _listens._

He’s not skimming through the pages like he usually would. He’s intentionally explaining them in full detail; every little thought that comes rushing in, being poured out to the man directly beside George. It’s refreshing, in a way, like cool summer air pressed against warm cheeks, or a feeling of almost relief, like collapsing in suffocatingly soft plush after a heinous day. He can tell Dream is invested just as much as George is. 

Something familiar catches his eye. Not the familiarity you feel with someone—or something—you’ve seen, it’s the feeling of familiarity of an imaginary thought you’ve had before, being displayed in the theatre of your mind with every small detail being there. Dream immediately begins searching through each paper, eyes darting through most of them, scanning each one for the humble connection he had just experienced. 

There, open in front of him, is a design none other than from _his_ novel. “You read _my_ stories?” 

George turns to look at him, pure embarrassment being hidden by his small hands. “Yeah, I’ve read a couple,” he answers. Dream looks at him in awe. 

“You seem like you enjoyed them, I’m glad. These designs—George, they’re amazing.” George returns Dream's gaze. 

It’s an unexpected string of events, but it’s perfect nonetheless. 

They talk for longer today. 

George thinks about the fortunate stroke of serendipity that had occurred over the past few days. He crosses the upcoming art gallery on his way home, the date set for a couple of weeks from now. He wonders, pondering on entering. Maybe, just maybe, he would be accepted this time. 

He dreams of the possibility that night. 

-

Dream sits on the edge of his bed. He’s aggressively writing messy dialogue, as he has been for the past short hour. His eyes are visibly tired, the corners of his shirt softly wrinkled, and his hair represents a rat's nest. He really should sleep, but his determination is getting the best of him. A low moonlit mood drifts through his window, which is ajar, and a soft stream of wind brushes against his bare cheeks. When he finally collapses onto the stiff mattress, he doesn’t bother switching out his day clothes. His eyelids drift to a close, switching his body into a light, calm sleep. 

  
  
  


This cycle repeats for weeks, coming close to a month and a half. Everyday, they strengthen the bond that’s been continuously brewing, speaking about different aspects of everything they enjoy. And everyday, the art hall's opening date draws closer.

George finds happiness of sorts in how much they’ve grown closer. The fact that he can have so much in common with another human being, and look forward to seeing them everyday, is just insane. 

George stares at the man who has viridian forests for eyes, and an imagination full of stars. To anyone, Dream might seem breathtaking--maybe even intimidating--when blessed with his presence. He has that smile that lights up the room and radiates warmth and positivity wherever he walks. His golden hair is almost always in a tangled mess, and George points it out regularly. 

Dream turns to look over at George. They’re both sitting together, inches apart, overseeing the puffed up foam that sits lightly atop deep blue ripples. They’ve been talking for hours now, and Dream can see the sun slowly taking its leave, disappearing peacefully under a stretch of cream white clouds. 

George slowly meets the other man's eyes, sheer shadows overcasting his face. The low light contrasts perfectly with his pale skin, carving out each crevice of his face. It happens so fast that George doesn’t notice when he gets lost in his features, and forces his stare away just as quickly. 

Dream doesn’t comment on it, and instead, offers his hand to George’s and picks himself up off the grass. George takes it without hesitation, and Dream takes them back to their bags and jackets. The ground begins to sink into deeper darkness, turning a dark umber underneath his feet. 

It’s become a sort of routine, the both of them walking with each other until they have to go their separate ways. George enjoys the company. He hopes Dream does too.

-

Time moves quickly. A week or so goes by, and just like that, the gallery is in six days. 

Dream’s been pushing George all week to enter before he can't anymore. Despite George’s protest, a small part of him wants to participate. That small part is spreading. 

Dream paces back and forth in his confined room, George sat on the edge of his bed, doodling art for Dreams newest book.  
  
“You have to sign up, George,” he says, twirling on his heel. “Talent like yours shouldn’t be ignored, and it won’t be, with me around.” 

George can always tell when Dream is teasing. Whenever he does, George’s response usually goes to autopilot, leaving it up to Dream to realize when George stops listening. It’s quite annoying, but somehow, Dream finds twisted humor in it, chuckling whenever George complains at his clinginess.

He laughs at how hopeless they are.

George lays his head across Dream’s sheets, soaking in the frigid January drift. He sighs, staring up into the blank swirling white. 

“I should really sign up for that stupid art convention, shouldn't I.” 

Dreams head whips around so fast it almost gives him whiplash. His expression is frozen in surprise, that stupid stunned grin of his printed on his lips. “Seriously? Are you being genuine this time?” 

“Yes, Dream. I’m being serious,” George answers, leaving dream shocked and excited, eyes fixed on George. George squints his eyes, trying not to laugh at his friend's reaction, but it’s quite a difficult task. 

“It’s in six days- George, what the hell are you going to submit?” Dream wonders aloud. George groans, while picking himself up from the bed.

“I was thinking I could do something from your newest unreleased novel?” George’s eyes shift to the other man, something unspoken left to tamper within them. 

“Are you sure? George- that would be great!” 

George can tell Dream is overflowing with amusement just by looking at him, his fingers fiddling with the loops of his jeans, pupils enlarged and filled with something giddy. 

It’s after dark when George leaves. 

His hands are cold and tinted a rosy shade, actively being heated up by his breath. He removes his shoes and thick coat by the door, bolting to his room and starting up the heating system. There are discarded canvases on the floor, paint stains surrounding his bed and chairs. He doesn’t bother organizing his room, what’s the point if only he sees it? 

A sketchbook is open and a tad ripped on his comforter, stained with spots of coffee and grime that he has yet to clean. When he meant Dreams unreleased novels, he really meant the late birthday present Dream had given him. Long story short, he had asked for George’s birthday, and when he came to the realization it had passed, he gifted George about six unfinished works and notes, all raw, all fresh. George loved them. They’re pinned to his wall, being kept in the best condition George can imagine. He takes his sketchbook and opens to a new page, beginning to sketch a rough baseline of characters, and taking notes on ideas. It’s not the most effective strategy, but it’s what he’s done since he was a child, back when he was doodling stick figures and drawing with chalk. It’s cliche, but practice really does make perfect. 

It’s morning when Dream opens his eyes. He doesn’t remember going to sleep, but he assumes it was sometime close to George’s leave. His room is absolutely freezing, a result from leaving the window open. He’s never usually up this early, but with the sun streaming through his windows, he can’t help but feel the urge to leave his confining mattress, the air around him dry and suffocating. He switches into new day clothes, fiddling with a buttoned-down plaid shirt, overlapping his dark coloured jeans, slightly roughed up near his knees and ankles. He’s about to grab something to eat when he hears a knock coming from his front door. 

Behind the tall cedar wood is none other than George himself, looking intently up at Dreams messy hair and tired eyes. It wasn’t anything new, George has been to Dreams house in the early morning many times, yet it caught him off guard. “George? What are you doing here?” 

“I came here to paint, you idiot. I need you to describe these surroundings more.” 

Dream’s used to this. Whenever George has an art block or is fresh out of ideas, he goes to Dream. Dream would explain his hundreds upon thousands of ideas in full detail. 

And George listens to every word. 

Some days, he would come back with a rough sketch. Some days, he would return with rushed, full-scale paintings that always left Dream with a loss for words. He can never truly get over George’s talent. 

“So? Are you going to help me or not?” 

George’s sharp words bring Dream back to reality, the draft from the open door cold and stinging against his cheeks. “Sorry, sorry, yeah. Come inside, it’s like, twenty-five degrees.” 

And so, there George is, positioned in his usual space at the end of Dreams bed. His bag is thrown somewhere spread amongst deep plush carpet, filled with paint shades and unfinished projects. “What kind of feeling are you going for” 

“The feeling of being at home I guess. Some sort of calm sensation?” George responds. “I was looking at your discarded notes today,” he begins, retrieving a yellowish piece of lined paper, torn slightly at the edges. “I found this. Since you’re an idiot and absolutely horrid at describing, I’ll try and help you with words, and you help me with the basic idea, sounds like a plan?” Dream laughs lightly at how certain George is set on this idea, but follows along either way. 

“Yeah, it’s a plan.”

Together, they get lost in fields of their imagination, crossing mountains of opportunity under a mixed ice colour sky. Dream enjoys it all, being able to build walls and fictional barriers that exist to them only. In their mind, they can create anything and everything, and that’s exactly what they do. 

George is the first to spark an idea, looking over lines in Dreams unfinished ladders of writing. He can’t tell exactly what goes through the other man's mind while writing, but he can take a pretty good guess. 

Dream notices George’s thought, and tries his best to explain in detail. 

George soaks up the descriptions like a sponge, making sure to sew everything to memory. He wonders, pondering what would happen if he had never met Dream. The thought sweeps his way every so often, and reminds him how grateful George should be to have someone like him. 

He really is a work of art, handcrafted from the Gods themselves. 

-

When George comes over again, there’s a smell of urgency that reeks in the air. His hair is ruffled, tangled under a pair of dark sunglasses that rest unsteadily atop his head. He hasn’t finished his painting, but the motivation Dream gives him is all he needs. 

The two are sitting in Dream’s living room this time, George’s miscellaneous items scattered around the couch and living space. He’s focused on the work in front of him, desperately trying to finish it before the weekend comes. 

“I just can’t figure it out--there’s something off about it. I can’t put my finger on what,” he says, annoyance running throughout his sentence. 

“It looks fine to me,” Dream comments. The remark throws George for a loop, clear frustration radiating off his sour expression. 

“Of course it looks fine to you, Dream. You’re not the one painting.” When he finishes the reply, he immediately regrets it. “I’m sorry- that wasn’t meant to come off so hostile.”

“It’s alright, I’ll be next to you, cheering you on until you finish.” 

Dream is a man of his word. When he said he’ll stay with George till he finishes, he means it. 

It’s late, but at least George is finished. The feeling of an urgent mess has completely vanished, being replaced with a cool aura of relief. 

-

“It’s tomorrow,” George says, obviously exasperated. 

“Everyone will love your art, I promise. You’ve already been accepted, so fuck what others think?” Dream responds, setting his hands against the marble countertop. 

“Watch your language,” George giggles, tracing letters lightly on the space next to where Dreams hands are placed. 

It’s as if all the puzzle pieces are beginning to fit together. 

-

It’s the day of the art hall now, anxiety and fear biting George more and more by the minute. Low light streams through cracks in the blinds, painting the room a thin gray. He submitted his painting the other day, and is now sat next to Dream on his couch, aiding him in his writing. His head is threatening to slip onto Dream’s shoulder, considering how close they are, but George keeps himself up. He isn’t eager to see his art being displayed, but he’s dug himself a whole too deep to get out of. 

“Did you get any sleep last night? You look like a zombie.” 

“Yes Dream,” George slurs, pushing himself deeper into the sage-dyed pillows. 

“God, you’re sleeping after this.” 

Dream picks himself off his sitting position, heading to his room, and begins to fix his day clothes and hair to look presentable. 

Minutes pass, and George does the same. The two men are dressed head to toe in casual dress pants, lazy looking lapels fitting neatly on both their necks. 

Once at their destination, they both wait quietly in awkward silence outside. Dream’s tempted to pull George closer towards the entrance, but ultimately, decides against it. He’s not the most patient person, but he will be today. For George’s sake. 

“I'm nervous,” George stifles a laugh, fiddling anxiously with the cuffs of his shirt. 

“Don’t be. People will just be wandering anyway, no one will point anything out. It’ll be fine, I promise.” 

-

Inside, everything looks in pristine condition, all gleaming white and clean. The two wonder a bit under floors of marble, Dream towering protectively over George. They get strange stares, which George assumes are from the fact that Dream is a well-known writer. Throughout their entire experience there, George remembers at least four people complimenting Dreams writing. 

By the time they reach George’s painting, Dream is visibly nervous and tired. George promises himself that he’ll take Dream to sit somewhere and watch the sunset, to help him calm down. There's a small couple of adults surrounding George’s artwork. They give him compliments, remarks of appreciation and love for his work. It makes him happy, how his creations can bring people such joy and amazement. 

He wonders if that’s what Dream thinks. 

They point out meaningful large-scale drawings that George can tell are carefully thought out. Most of the time, Dreams remarks and idiotic comments make George laugh, then curse at himself for being loud. They pick up strange looks from strangers who have nothing better to do than judge others, obviously whispering cruel words to their friends. 

Either way, they both leave after around two hours. Due to lack of sleep, George’s eyes are heavy and dark. It’s nearing eight pm, temperatures below freezing that pinch at George’s fingers. 

Dream on the other hand, is more anxious than cold. His hand is only centimeters away from George's, the warmth radiating off them making it tempting to rap his own fingers around the other man's. He shoves the thought away, quickening his pace to match George’s. 

“Where are we going, George?” 

“I was thinking we could catch the sunset before it’s gone,” he responds, staring up into Dream’s eyes, leaving him flustered. 

“Yeah,” the light dims, a dark freckled sky threatening to take over. “Lead the way, George.

-

The lights of the sky are piecing together, spots of tangerine and deep crimson blocks being painted across a low, corn blue sky scattered with tufts of cotton looking clouds. The air smells of fresh salts and sweet berries, lush greenery projecting in front of them. Soft ripples wrap around rocks lining the edge of the lake, mirroring the wonders of the sunset and distorting its image. Coral shadows carve out Dreams relaxed expression, allowing himself to soak in the scenery. 

“The sunset looks beautiful, does it not?” 

George breaks his focus and turns to Dreams sparkling eyes. They shine nicely in the dim lighting, making George smile. “Yea, it does,” he hums. 

“I saw a painting quite similar to it in the gallery.” Dream chirps, the tension between their fingers threatening to start a flame. 

“I remember that one. The picture of the couple?” 

From beyond the mass of leaves swaying in the wind, choirs of birds can be heard. The remaining fragments of sunlight hang over the two, giving everything around them a low-lit honest feeling. George takes a glance at Dream's clearly nervous face, tearing his eyes away in embarrassment just as quickly. 

“Well, a couple is a bold assumption,” Dream says, refusing to look George in the eye. 

“I guess you’re right.”

George dislikes the unaddressed tension, something he’s been feeling for a number of days now. What had changed in their friendship?

“They could be close friends.” 

George hums again. 

There’s a sudden shift in feeling that happens so quickly it takes George a moment to register. It’s the sense of being flustered, in a way, that swirls around him. Dream wonders if his next move would completely ruin the months of humble friendship they’ve had. The thought terrifies him. The thought of losing George terrifies him.

But what if he doesn’t lose George? He decides to act on that thought instead, taking deep, unsteady breaths while doing so. 

“We could recreate that.” 

George’s face heats up, and he knows Dream’s does as well. His breath feels heavy and hot against the wind, eyes turning to lock with each other. 

“Dream, what-“ 

Before George can even finish his sentence, Dream gently cups his jaw, soft fingers pulling him into a slow, passionate kiss that leaves George wanting more. It’s full of unspoken emotion, bleeding with pushed down feelings and quiet words. George doesn’t realize that this is what he’s been wanting for months, the shift in their friendship now turned to something more. This very moment is the thing he’s needed. 

He feels as if he’s above the clouds, soaring over everything up to this point. He feels complete, right there, under the stretch of sky where it all began. 

Dream feels exactly the same. 

It’s never been like this for either of them before. It’s exciting, yet funny, in a way, how new they are to this. 

When George finally pulls away for air, the butterflies in his stomach get stuck in his throat. Dream breathes a chuckle, clasping George’s hand firmly and resting his head on the other's shoulder. 

There’s love in the air. Not the love in Dreams stories, not the love in George’s paintings. Real love, hot and burning viciously throughout them. 

The gooey mass of light disappears reluctantly behind clumps of white clouds, the stars peaking out to look at George and Dream. 

It’s funny what an unexpected November encounter can do. 

**Author's Note:**

> IM SO SCARED TO POST THIS PLEASE anyway i hope you um, thought that was okay, go follow me on twitter plz its @rootabega_ , follow these people too because the fic is FOR THEM
> 
> @maltfall  
> @lunchbox_friend


End file.
